Alone, to the banks of the dark rolling Danube 40 Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose Burg Niedeck is a mountain in Alsace, high and strong 241 Come take up your hats, and away let us haste 82 CC Have I a knight, or have I a page 274 135 He is gone on the mountain ⚫He left his home with a bounding heart He sat in silence on the ground. He talked of daggers and of darts 5 245 Her chariot ready strait is made. 369 Her hands were clasped, her dark eyes raised 41 109 Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue 74 High sounds the song of the valiant man 112 How many thousands are wakening now 348 201 I sprung to the stirrup, and Joris, and he 259 I wish I were where Helen lies 343 In schools of wisdom all the day was spent. Inscribed on many a learned page In the hollow tree, in the gray old tower It is an ancient mariner It was an aged man, who stood It was an hour of grief and fear Morn on the waters, and purple and bright My beautiful, my beautiful, that standest meekly by My hawk is tired of perch and hood No eye beheld when William plunged No stir in the air, no stir in the sea Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note Now glory to the Lord of Hosts . Of Leinster, famed for maidens fair Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray O Mary, go and call the cattle home On the green banks of Shannon when Sheelah was nigh Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lowered Silent and mournful sat an Indian chief Singing and dancing being all their pleasure Sleep breathes at last from out thee Sleep, little baby, sleep Some murmur, when their sky is clear. Southward with fleet of ice 17 The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold 300 The fiery courser, when he hears from far 123 The fires blazed bright till deep midnight The fox and the cat, as they travelled one day The harp that once through Tara's halls The minstrel boy to the war is gone 53 240 8 34 178 20 The months all riding came The Moor had beleaguered Valencia's towers The Moslem spears were gleaming The muffled drum was heard The ordeal's fatal trumpet sounded The shepherd of the Alps am I . The summer and autumn had been so wet The trumpet's voice hath roused the land The warrior bowed his crested head There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin There's George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Reginald Shore They made her a grave too cold and damp 'Twas dead of night, when weary bodies close 'Twas in heaven pronounced, 'twas muttered in hell Underneath an old oak tree Under the green hedges after the snow |